


Alone

by a_little_chai



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Abandonment, Addressing the weird way 5.0 was handled, Am I just supposed to ignore that?, Character Study, Episode: s05e01 Nameless Faceless, Gen, Hurt Spencer Reid, I think I just made things worse, Like why did the whole team just abandon Reid?, Mental Health Issues, Please read end notes for all warnings, Season/Series 05, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Spencer Reid Whump, This is not a fix-it though, possible triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26795509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_little_chai/pseuds/a_little_chai
Summary: The team is gone, focused on finding Foyet and looking after Hotch. In the process, they've forgotten (abandoned) one of their own.A brief look into Spencer's thoughts.(Post 5.01 Nameless Faceless)
Relationships: Spencer Reid & The BAU Team
Comments: 11
Kudos: 209





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I really don't know what this is. It started as just something to get myself writing, but turned into a character study... I guess? I don't know. The latter half is just me writing down stuff that I've wanted to write for a while, but I think it's okay, so up it goes. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> All warnings in end notes.

The clock on his wall clicked the seconds away quietly, a steady beat to the resounding silence. A metronome. He could almost feel how it mirrored his own heart as it pumped. Every time a second passed, every time the hand ticked a step forward, a rush of pain went through his body. Radiating from his knee, traveling like lightning up his left side. Loud. Overwhelming, it was. Like a bass drum slamming in his soul. 

His thoughts, glittering and jerky and never settling - they made a melody. A discordant, grating one. One that made him rock back and forth, twisting and turning, when he laid on his bed. Head clutched tightly between his hands as he begged, _begged_ , the voice to stop. 

But his thoughts kept speaking. The pain kept coming. And the clock kept ticking. 

A horrible symphony, the three made.

Distantly, he heard a chime. For the barest of moments, he thought the metaphor had come true. That all of reality had simply descended into one orchestral piece, a hellish composition played for an eternity, one with no escape, no.... 

Maybe he was going insane. 

But it was just the toaster. 

Just the toaster, bread he had placed inside it minutes (had it really only been minutes?) ago popping up. It had been habit more than anything. He hadn't actually been hungry in weeks. The very idea of eating made bile start to rise, his stomach cramping. 

But still, he stood. His body moving on autopilot. Grabbing his crutches, the plate. Pulling out the toast. Eyes glazed over, each step sending pure fire radiating from his knee. And still, he spread a bit of jam across the bread. Licked away the remnants clinging to the knife, just as he always did. Not even the sweet taste could bring him out of his trance. 

He only paused when his hand reached to start his coffee maker. 

Morgan had bought it for him. A birthday present. It was a nice one, like the ones at a real coffee shop. The pain faded as the Bullpen formed around him. A friendly hand on his shoulder, touch electric. His own fingers wrapped around a warm mug, almost burning. 

_Any more sugar and you won't be able to call it coffee anymore, pretty boy._ It was said with a laugh. 

A glistening, beautiful laugh. 

It rang in his mind. For the fewest of seconds it rang, before his knees gave out. 

The crutches kept him up for a moment, before they skidded on the tile. He fell, hard, on his side. A whimper left his mouth, he was sure, but he couldn't hear it. The pain pounding everywhere, just _everywhere,_ was too loud. 

The surgical site, the gunshot wound - they hurt. They hurt as bad as when that bullet pierced his knee, ripping apart ligaments and shattering his patella. 

Somehow, though, through all the real pain, real agony, his heart hurt worse. 

Two weeks. 

Two _fucking_ weeks. 

And not one word. Not one.... word. From Morgan, from Emily, from JJ. Not a call, or a visit, or even a text. Just radio silence. 

He knew, he _really_ knew, that it was petty. Childish. Hotch... Hotch's entire life had just been turned upside down. Jack, Haley, ripped from him. Not to mention the physical toll of Foyet's attack. He needed the team. He needed them more than he ever did. 

A tear still fell onto the tile. 

He never used to cry. Not like this. 

( _He cried when he fell to the ground, clutching his knee as blood spurted from the wound. He cried when he was in the ambulance, begging the doctors not give him drugs even as they loaded up a syringe, feeling panic overwhelm him as he thought, for a second, they wouldn't listen. He cried when he was lying in that hospital room, in so much pain he couldn't do anything but lie there and try not to imagine needles and fish hearts. He cried -_ ) 

It was like everything was so much, everything pressing down on him so hard, that he could only let the tears fall. Not even the Hoover Dam would be able to hold them back. 

He could be dead. 

He could be dead and they wouldn't know. 

They wouldn't... 

( _would they care?_ ) 

He couldn't even talk anymore. He'd tried, yesterday (was that yesterday?). He'd laid in bed, the light of the moon falling across him, and tried to scream, make a sound. Whisper 'help me' and pretend someone would actually come. 

Nothing had come out. 

He needed to get up. He couldn't lay on the floor all day. But everything was numb. Completely numb. His body refused to move. 

It seemed that was all he was, now. Numb. Unable to feel. Unable to do anything more than go through the motions and pretend he was some real person, pretend he wasn't... himself. 

Look in the mirror, brush your hair. That's what everyone else does, right? But no one else sees weeks of plaque covering their teeth, grease coating their hair, skin literally flaking away when touched. 

Those ideas that float past your mind - doing what normal people do, brushing teeth and washing hair - they're nothing more than that: ideas. 

He could barely get out of bed in the morning. 

Every time that damn sun rises, he lays there. He lays there and pretends he's anyone but himself, anywhere but here. It takes... it takes more than he can describe to pull back the covers and face a day which promises to be the same as the all the others before it. 

It took an hour, to get himself upright this morning. An hour, imagining. The image came to his mind again - Morgan was helping him up, JJ putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. Maybe he could hear Rossi singing in Italian as he made coffee in the kitchen, Garcia cutting him off with some pop song. Emily grabs his crutches from the corner. Hotch... 

He hits himself. 

Hard. 

The fantasy blinks out when he punches a fist deep into his thigh, wincing at the pain. But he does it again. And again. And again. 

How... how _disgusting_ is he? Imagining something like that? Hotch is literally fighting for his life and he's.... ( _sitting on the dirty floor pretending he has a family and is real and anything but_ ).... himself. 

Spencer Reid. Freak. Addict. Parasite. Invisible. 

Words inscribed onto him as surely as if they were actually carved across his forehead. 

But there's one. One blazoned across his soul, a brand for all to see. 

_Alone._

Always, always alone.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings**  
>  Depression  
> Self-hatred  
> Brief, non-graphic self harm
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, it's just a hop, skip, and a jump down to the kudo or comment button. It makes this author's day!


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